


Year Of Little Touches

by Cozy_coffee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Community: comment_fic, Everything Hurts, Family Feels, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Sam Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sensuality, Tears, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 00:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18063503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cozy_coffee/pseuds/Cozy_coffee
Summary: A fill for the comment_fic prompt; Supernatural, Dean/Sam Winchester; One brother helps the other after being hurt on a hunt.





	Year Of Little Touches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jld71](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jld71/gifts).



Sam is barely ten years of age the first time Dean returns from a hunt truly torn up. John said it was a simple job, a milk run. He was very wrong. Dean is harmed, seriously. Bleeding and cut up, patches of purple and dark shades decorating his sun golden skin. Three ribs are bruised and hurting, and there is one long, grisly gash cutting across his chest, tearing his shirt to strip shreds.

Two of Dean’s fingers are disengaged, and his right ankle is sprained. He spits blood, his bottom lip cut and bleeding. He wobbles like a newborn colt as Dad leads him into the room, John bolsters most of Dean's weight against his side to keep him upright.   
Dean’s breathing hard between his clenched teeth and his eyes are glassy and wet, like he has been crying, or fighting back tears to appear brave in front of his father. 

Sam lingers by the doorway, big brown doe eyes wide and worried, his fingers fidgeting around the hem of his black hand-me-down AC/DC shirt that hangs huge on his skinny frame. The shirt belonged to Dean until he hit his growth spurt and out grew it.

Three bloody rags douse the table as John patches up Dean, the fabric trickling red against the lively cherry wood. Sam startles when Dean lets out a yowling whimper of torment, heaving between gripped teeth. Dean has never fussed, not ever, and has never whimpered. He generally put on a bold face, even when he is harmed, he smiles and bears it, cocky big brother as ever.

Sam believes they should go to the hospital, but John seems to work magic with his medical training; stiches are weaved, wounds are patched up with alcohol and gauze. A few pills and some whiskey slightly shush Dean’s broken whimpers.

Sam wants to argue with his father, Dean is injured greatly and needs professional help, yet it seemed like with John’s skill, Dean is cured, as much as possible, that is. Sam moves a little closer when Dad starts in on the ribs, wrapping them with an ace bandage before lightly pressing a homemade ice pack against them. By now, Dean seems a little bit out of it. His head lolls, he is not whimpering any more, and his eyelids are heavy and dropping.

Sam glances at John, questioning and worried. Dad smiles, a little sad but comforting, brushing a hand gently through Sam’s hair. “He will be alright, Sammy. I promise. He just got really bang up. Help me get him into bed, he needs to rest.”

Sam takes Dean’s hand, careful of the two once broken fingers that have been reset by John and held together with a homemade splint. Together, they get Dean settled into bed, and Sam doesn’t care if he is too old to sleep next to Dean; he crawls in bed beside his older brother, laying his head next to Dean’s on the big, fluffy pillow.  
John doesn't scold Sam nor advise him that they are much too old to share a bed. 

Rather, he tenderly tucks the sheets over both his young men and kisses their temples, before leaving on a supply run. Dean will require more pharmaceutical and a change of gauzes, and some solace nourishment like chicken noodle soup for when he wake. There is a store up the street therefore he won't be gone lone, he does not wish to be far from his children for a long time.

Dean slips off into a simple rest because of the medication, yet Sam stays awake, his fingers twisted around the amulet on his sibling’s neck. He doesn’t realize there are tears in his eyes until he whispers “Please, don’t ever leave me, Dean. I...I love you.”

His voice is soft and small, like his words are meant to be a secret. Only they are not. It is not a secret he loves his brother. It is not a secret his heart breaks with the thought of his brother dying, and as Dean sleeps, Sam sniffles softly, begging his sibling, “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Dean sleeps on as Sam cuddles closer to him, holding him as if to never let him go. 

The years come and go, seasons change, and they grow older. Their love grows stronger, a taboo, and yet even though their love is a sin, they still cling to each other. 

The days are dark lately, many battles that they lose, blood and bruise etched into their torn skin. War is coming. The angels roar a battle cry and the demons howl at the night. Every day is a little bit longer and a lot darker. It ends bloody or sad, that is the life, and Dean has made peace with that. He is still alive, breaths in the ash in the air, still keeps calm and carries on even when all he wants to do is crash and burn.

War come to the Winchesters. They hunt, bleed—life goes on. One day at a time. Tonight, the air was dry, suffocating. It was a simple were-wolf hunt. They killed the beast, but took some damage in the way of a victory. 

Sam has to fight to get Dean’s jacket off his shoulders; the leather is unyielding and stiff, and Dean’s shoulder is twisted in a way that makes Sam’s stomach knots up, and he doesn’t want to cause his brother any more pain than he is already in.

Dean’s green eyes flutter closed, his body aches, his muscles burn like acid. ‘Keep calm and carry on wayward son’ his heart commands him, but his weary head and tied soul seek peace and rest. 

Dean hisses and grunts in achy, teeth gritted so tightly together his jaw cracks. Parked out on the side of the road, Sam works to put his broken body together again. Together, they shuck off the coat and Sam is making a shushing hush before he realizes it, hands pausing on his brother’s side when Dean looks like he is about to start crying. The Henley and jeans come off with Dean nearly cursing the devil out of his grave, his shoulder displaced in this socket and the skin already turning purple and yellow.

Sam gets the shoulder popped pack into place, his stomach rolls when Dean howls like wounded animal trapped in a death snare, his skin sweaty and warm everywhere Sam touches him. 

A shot whiskey dulls the pain. Dean tries not to hiss like a cat when the needle digs into his blood wound, he knows Sam is being as gentle as possible. His brother even presses a little soft kiss to his cheek as if by magic the power of love can ease the hurt. Sam soft shushing, gentling his injured brother, and Dean's heavy gasps of agony.

Dean winces against the rough drag of the prickling needle looping threads through his broken skin as Sam stitches him up. The cuts snarl deep, angry red, jagged against his pale freckled skin; the throbbing sting cuts through his veins as the needle slices into him. The needle is unforgiving, but Sam’s little kisses, like a kid kissing a boo-boo away, helps to ease the hurt. 

Dean hisses with each slice into his skin, a few blood drops falling onto the seat, and he quickly wipes them away; gotta keep Baby clean. By the time Sam has stitched the last thread into him, Dean can barely keep his eyes open, and he is pretty beat up and bloody and needs a shower, but when gentle lips kiss his forehead, every wound in his body seems to heal. The hurt slips away, if only for a second, as he leans his forehead against Sam’s, and they breath the same air, two hearts beating as one.

When they get back to the motel, the pain is aching. One shirt button slowly unclasped between Sam’s fingertips; one soft kiss to Dean’s chest presses on the jagged scar etching pale skin while he peels the cloth back and over a set of broad, freckled shoulders. Dean’s chest looks like a battlefield, and even though Sam is a Master with stitches, after years of practice, putting Dean together again is a challenge. 

Sam tries to be gentle as he drags the sharp needle through the broken skin, his hands steady as he weaves in and out of the shredded skin. The pain medication and whiskey dull the ache, but not entirely and with the twine burning through raw skin, Dean hissed like a hellcat. Thankfully, with a knot and a clip of the scissors, the task is accomplished.  
Sam brushes his hands lightly over Dean’s chest, inspecting to make sure all wounds are tethered. He did not intend to brush his fingertips over one tiny, pink nipple; however, the touch caresses lightly and sends a shiver through Dean. 

Sam expects Dean to swat his hand away and tease “I know I’m gorgeous but hands off the merchandise.” That doesn’t happen. Instead, Dean raises his head, slowly grasping the situation through hazy lidded eyes, before closing his eyes and groaning as the room spins slightly. 

Sam kisses Dean’s forehead and then brushes his hands soothingly over Dean’s chest, touching all sorts of soft spots that elicit even more moans, yet this time, the sounds are of pleasure—not pain. There has always been something between them, yet they keep it to the light of the night; times when they are drunk or simply need pleasure, but they never talk about it. It just happened, and then it did not, as they turn the other cheek even after they have crossed a line for which they cannot come back. 

Sam presses a kiss to Dean's chest, electing a soft groan that is not a sing of pain, but of wanting, desiring. “Is this alright, Dean?” He whispers because Dean’s ears are still ringing and his head throbs after being tossed around like a rag doll by a son-of-a-bitch spirit who put up a hell of a fight before they were able to ganker her. Dean does not say a word, but he leans closer, as if seeking whatever Sam will give him. 

Sam leans in and rests his forehead against Dean’s, pausing briefly to breath in the scent of whiskey and leather, before he brushes his lips over Dean’s temple. Even though Dean’s voice is hushed, the younger Winchester doesn’t miss the soft “Sammy, please...” 

Sam can make Dean feel good, even if come morning his brother will order them never to talk about this sinful thing between them. With quick fingers, he unzips Dean’s bloodstained jeans and tugs them off; when Dean hissed and clenched teeth, clearly in discomfort from the cloth rubbing over a wound on his thigh, Sam tosses the jeans away and loving kisses the raw skin. 

Sam slides a tentative hand down between Dean’s legs and palmed Dean’s erection and gave a slow stroke, electing a hushed moan from the beautiful man underneath him. Sam strokes lazily while his smoldering eyes gaze into Dean's jewel-green eyes as his toned chest ripples with lust that vibrates deep within his loving soul. 

Dean is throbbing hard, at full mast in the blink of an eye as he lies back on the bed, moaning and shaking as Sam strokes him. He reaches down to cup his balls, intent to help Sam bring him off quickly because the sooner they get this over the sooner then can do as they always do and go back to hiding their feelings, but Sam shook Dean's hand away and kisses his thigh, whispering “Lay back and relax, Dean. I am going to make you feel so good, big brother.”

It is not right, but it is okay, and Dean surrenders to the pleasure as the whiskey pulsing though his body. He gives into to Sam and allows his brother's touch to send him into the land of orgasmic bliss. 

♥ END ♥

**Author's Note:**

> [Written for this prompt!](https://comment-fic.livejournal.com/848473.html?thread=105089369#t105089369)


End file.
